Crysis: The other angle
by Darkchild130
Summary: Investigating what went on after Crysis 1. How did the Koreans know about the Ceph?  How did they really get the nanosuits?  Please review, M for Language
1. Prologue Chapter 1

**Hello, this is my first fanfiction. If you take the time to read it, please review it as I need feedback to improve!**

**Crysis:**

The other angle.

In hindsight, Lingshang was a massive clusterfuck.

A carrier group lost, hundreds of Marines and sailors killed, 7 operators KIA, 2 MIA, billions of dollars spent on covering it up, and potential nuclear war with the Koreans after they spun some shit about the bomb we dropped on the island.

And for what?

Yeah, the DOD learnt of the aliens, or Ceph as they're now being called (I think some Geek at Crynet coined that term), but other than what we saw and fought on the island, we know next to nothing about them.

It all seemed like something cool at first, you know?

I mean, I'm too cynical to get caught up in all that "blacker than black" and "We can turn you into a superhuman" bullshit, (12 years service, 4 of those as a Delta operator will do that to anyone) but I had to admit I was intrigued, I mean it sounded like being in a comic book or something.

I was Intrigued enough to leave the teams and sign up for the Nanosuit program, anyway.

Crynet told us that only 1% of all humans had DNA that was compatible with the suits. Luckily, that DNA was prevalent in SF operators (seems that the program was initially geared towards us alpha-male dumb grunt types) but even so the entire SF community didn't provide enough personnel for the teams.

That's how we got psycho, that crazy Brit bastard.

Anyway, who cares about that, it's afterwards we're interested in.

That's when the weird shit started happening (yeah, I've killed aliens on a frozen tropical island and I think_ this_ is weird)

Hawk team are all KIA.

Raptor team lost Aztec and Jester, Prophet is MIA.

Eagle team, my guys, we came off lightly. We only lost one guy MIA, my good buddy Bear.

After getting off the island, the debrief takes days. We are questioned together, apart, together again. We are encouraged to talk about it together, talk to therapists, and recall every single aspect of the mission as accurately as possible, so the boffins can glean info from it (which, incidentally, we do. Turns out perfect recall is a side effect of wearing the nanosuit)

All the while these Crynet suits are skulking around in the background. After a couple of days the DOD releases us to Crynet for debriefing, we are moved to a separate facility so they can get the suits off of us without damaging either party (so they say).

When we get there, some old guy on a giant flat screen introduces himself to us, Jacob Hargreaves he calls himself.

He starts chattering about how grateful he is for our efforts, how the data from the nanosuits (which he calls the N1) will be instrumental in perfecting the mass production model.

See, it turns out our N1s were just prototypes (that explains the shitty night optics, some retard obviously threw that in at the last moment), precursors to the next big thing, the imaginatively titled N2.

He goes on about next generation AI, semi-autonomous operating parameters blah blah blah, but to be honest I wasn't really listening by that point, I just wanted to get out of the suit.

That's when the weirdness starts.

We go in, one at a time, get our suits removed and end up in some kind of plush waiting room, the kind that real rich people must have at their private hospitals, all fat cushy sofas and free snacks, big TV on the wall that kind of thing.

It is "requested" that we stay there until the procedures are finished.

It takes hours, though I'm sure my N1 came off in about 5 minutes.

And when it's all done, we're down some men.

Nomad, Psycho and Cupcake are nowhere to be seen.

Dane is the most vocal of us, questioning the anonymous limp dick in a suit they send down to send us home, asking them what the fuck they have done with our guys.

He tells us

"Due to complications, most likely from the excessive amounts of damage sustained in battle, your friends are remaining behind for further treatment."

Bullshit. They would discuss it with the rest of the teams first, they would at least want to say goodbye to us.

"We can assure you that they are perfectly safe, they have volunteered to participate in a data gathering exercise. It's the first time we have been able to remove battle damaged N1s from live-"

He pauses for the shortest moment, not wanting to choose a word like "subjects" or "hosts" that might offend us, but we catch it anyway.

"combatants. If you would be so kind as to…"

He gestures with his arm and the goons close in, tooled up mercs dressed in the latest hybrid memory gel/spider weave body armour and toting SCARS, all decked out in some corporate bastardisation of urban camo (we would tear these guys apart in seconds if we had our nanosuits, annoyingly enough).

As they move in to usher us out into the transport, glances are passed between us, a strange tension fills the air for a second as though we all feel the underlying hostility behind the smiles and carefully constructed sentences.

Then just as quickly the moment is gone, what hope would 3 operators have against a squad of fully armed mercs, no matter how well trained we are.

_The idea is absurd_I think to myself as I look at Dane and Blue dog, all of us wearing matching mauve hospital scrubs, unarmed and looking tired from days of no sleep.

So we get on the transports.

Back at Bragg we get isolated, separated, confined to quarters, told to wait for instructions.

I never saw Psycho, Nomad or Cupcake again.

That was 8 months ago.

**Chapter 1**

Sgt Daniel "Bandit" Taylor sat in his quarters, staring at the TV.

There was nothing on it.

He didn't know what time it was, but it was dark, so he guessed it was late/early.

The living room was a mess. Empty liquor bottles and take away containers lay strewn about with his father's Kukri, the only weapon he had managed to smuggle into isolation with him, buried point first in the coffee table.

It wasn't a real one. His father had taken a thoroughly modern weapon, it's black anodised blade and polymer handle betraying it's replica status, with him into operation Desert Storm back in the 20th.

It was the only thing baby Daniel got from his dead dad, after he died in the invasion.

Friendly fire, A10 tank hunter took out his humvee column. He wasn't even a combat soldier, just some dumb clerk whose CO took them down the wrong road.

Bandit had decided to do better.

He took another swig from the bottle in his hand, grimaced as the liquid burned it's way down his throat.

"Doing much better now, huh!" Bandit said to an empty room.

_Never was much of a drinker_he thought to himself, though it had been happening more and more in recent weeks.

The therapists told him it was a symptom of post-traumatic stress disorder, told him he should be careful, stop bottling up what was inside, it's self destructive.

Usual head shrinking BS.

Whatever.

Being confined to quarters was mind numbing.

He had to call in every hour from 0700 to 2300 to confirm he hadn't tried to do a runner, and guards checked in on him in the silent hours to do the same.

At first he coped pretty well.

He developed an in-house fitness routine and stuck to it religiously for the first few months, as well as rediscovering his love for porn and computer games with the excess free time at hand.

Then the sickness came.

It wasn't too bad, lethargy, the odd headache, a bit of vomiting, seemingly at random intervals.

But eventually it got to him. The endless therapy sessions, the blank stares that met his questions, the lack of _anything to fucking do._

The sickness was the cherry on the cake, the part that tipped it over from bearable to outright depressing.

So he decided to get drunk instead.

A lot.

And the therapists chastised him, but they never denied him the alcohol, after all he had to request it to be delivered and they could always refuse.

But he figured it kept him quiet, out of trouble, compliant, so they let it slide.

_Motherfuckers._

Placing the bottle down unsteadily onto his coffee table, Bandit clapped the light strip on and stood up groggily.

Blinking heavily as the room was thrown into stark brightness, he caught his reflection in the darkness of the TVs LED screen.

Pale blue sunken eyes looked back at him. His short brown hair was greying at the temples and he swore he had twice as many wrinkles as yesterday.

Bandit tugged at the scraggy beard on his jaw as he inspected himself.

32 years old. He was a warrior in his prime, his entire adult life spent in the military, and here he was, rotting away in an issued single bedroom apartment.

_What a waste of time._

Lifting up his 3 day old t-shirt he sniffed his armpit and retched.

_Damn I need a shower._

He looked at his torso before dropping the shirt back down, noting that his six pack had begun to hide underneath the alcohol abuse, his flanks beginning to soften.

He needed to do something soon, the inactivity was killing him, he wasn't used to sitting around and doing nothing.

He was an operator and he needed to train, needed to practice, needed to stay sharp.

Bandit was bored shitless.

It just made no sense. These were the most experienced men, the de-facto subject matter experts on fighting the alien threat, yet they were being kept like they were in quarantine.

_Maybe we are _

Bandit mused as he stood under the shower head, scrubbing himself clean under the scalding hot spray.

It turned out that the time was around 2245 when Bandit first got off the couch, as a loud knock on the door disturbed him from his efforts to leave an imprint of his fore head in the shower wall.

_BANG BANG BANG_

He jerked his head upright and snorted in surprise, choking as a glob of snot and shower water went down the wrong hole.

The noise of the front door knob turning, and a voice.

"Sergeant Taylor, I'm coming in."

"Yeah yeah, I'm coming, give me a moment."

Bandit stumbled from the shower, threw a towel round his waist and entered the living room.

What greeted him there was one Lance Corporal Fiennes, a big bullet headed MP built like a linebacker, would be if it wasn't for the gut spilling over his belt, threatening to burst out the bottom of his fatigue shirt.

Fiennes had been his security guard for the last 3 nights, starting at 2300 to show Bandit a fresh face, then checking on him while he slept, hence the key he held to the Army apartment.

Bandit didn't particularly like him, he wasn't much of a talker but that was ok, as he realised that it was probably mutual. Fiennes probably didn't appreciate babysitting some jumped up SF operators on a 4 on 4 off shift.

The hefty MP stared at the blade embedded in the table as Bandit emerged from the bathroom, as he had done for the last 3 evenings.

"Don't even think about it dude, you know that blade was my dad's. It's a keepsake, not a weapon."

You only had to look at the knife to know this was a blatant lie, it was like a promise of violence made steel.

_What was it Psycho called it?_

Bandit padded over to the big man, who held out a thumb print scanner at waist height from a retention cord on his belt.

_Ah yes, Blagging. Bandit was blagging the MP so he didn't take his toy away._

Bandit placed his right thumb on the pad and stared at Fiennes, who was clearly uncomfortable with the whole situation, some guys just didn't like their personal space being invaded.

"so." Bandit begun as they waited for the little machine to do it's work, hoping to change the subject away from his blade.

"How are my fellow captives on this fine night? Dane got anything to say for himself?"

Fiennes raised one Neanderthal brow quizzically.

"You know I can't talk about that, Sergeant."

A quick look up and down.

"You drunk?"

"Yep."

"Again?"

"Yep."

"Jesus man, that's every night this week."

"Yeah, because I've got a crapload of other stuff to do, right."

The thumb reader gave a little chime and Fiennes stepped back toward the door, visibly relieved to be out of Bandit's personal space.

"You should get some sleep, Sergeant Taylor."

Bandit snorted, who the fuck was this little upstart to tell him what to do.

"You know what, I really want a pizza. Extra large, thin base, pepperoni."

Lance Corporal Fiennes sighed.

"I'll get one sent out within the hour."

Bandit grunted at him and sat back down on his couch.

Fiennes left without comment and Bandit decided to get some net time in, his one connection to the outside world like a lifeline for his sanity.

He fired up the cloud and immediately went to the inbox, trawling through piles of spam to see if anyone he knew wanted to talk to him.

While scrolling through a list of junk mail with a Jack Daniels addled indifference, one particular e-mail caught his attention, a message from

**CRYNET COMBAT SOLUTIONS**

In all capitals, no subject reference.

Click.

Subject:

Date: Fri 14th May 2021

Ever wonder how the Koreans got hold of nanosuits?

Crynet says they stole the technology and reverse engineered it but I don't buy it.

Look at the rest of their tech, its generations behind anything we have, even if they stole the nanotech, it would be like giving a laptop to a caveman.

And how did they become aware of the artefact in the first place?

Do you see?

I currently have no proof of crynet's involvement but I know where it is.

What I need is a nanosuit to break their proprietary encryption, unfortunately it is based on the same tech as the suits your team wore at Lingshang.

N1s are specifically gene-coded to their users, and the N2 is not ready.

I don't need to spell it out for you.

You are being held in isolation because the DOD believe anyone who came into contact with the Ceph could be infected with a lethal extra terrestrial virus.

They are trying to watch you die.

I'm not privy to any details, but they should all be on the same secure servers.

If you want to know if there's any truth to their fears, come to the crynet facility and take your suit back. It's location is not secret, a quick google search will give you the address. Just don't try and reply to this message, it's only secure one way.

Help me and I'll help you.

That's all it said.

No mention of Cupcake and the others.

Bandit screwed his eyes up, tried to focus through the stupor.

_Maybe that was intentional, trying to get your mind working_. Yeah.

Talk about dangling a carrot.

He read through the E-mail again a few times, tried to get something useful out of it, after all there was nothing on there that he hadn't thought about himself at some point in the last 8 months.

But there was something about seeing it in writing, somebody _else's _writing,that made it seem real, like it wasn't just paranoia.

A small voice inside his head told him _don't, you're heavily post traumatic, and sick, and you're becoming a drunk. _

Bandit stewed over this for several minutes, eyes staring into the toilet bowel as he vomited violently _don't even remember getting to the bathroom _before he reached a moment of clarity.

Who was he kidding?

He had known as soon as he saw who the mail was from. He had to learn where his friends had gone, had to learn about Crynet.

They  
>had gone from being just that weapons company in the background who were providing this new gear, to somehow being at the centre of all this overnight.<p>

He was going, no doubt about it.

Right after he sobered up.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2: Infiltration**

Bandit woke with a start, peeling his face off the pillow with a jerk as the door buzzer squealed at him.

His subconscious immediately knew, _0700 daytime shift changeover, need to sign in, must be Tyson, he's the only one that uses the buzzer _but the conscious mind wasn't in right now.

Please leave a message after the puke.

He squinted as harsh sunlight poured in through the window, and burst into a coughing fit, each convulsion of his chest sending searing jets of pain through his temples.

Bandit had no idea how he had got in bed, whether he stumbled there himself, or the more likely option, Fiennes had seen him sprawled on the bathroom floor and dragged him to his bed.

He didn't care either way.

As Bandit blinked and sat, allowing his body's natural start up sequence to sluggishly go through the motions, memories from the night before came back to him in pits and troughs, one sticking out in particular.

Crynet.

The e-mail.

Dying.

He had to figure out what was going on. That corporation had to know more than they were telling the government.

_BUZZZZZZZZ_

Oh yeah. That.

Bandit dragged himself out of bed.

He waited until that night to make his move.

In the day time he had done as much research as he could. He got the address of the Crynet facility, it was located some 7 miles away from Bragg, Just east of Fayetteville on the new industrial estate.

Bandit figured it made sense to have it so close to Bragg, made it easier to transport the gear in for the Program before Lingshang.

Google earth provided the layout, which he memorised in as much detail as he could while nursing his hangover.

The most important fact was that the whole site was surrounded by a 10 foot concrete wall, impregnated with shok lines to stop any intruders.

A modern smart defence system, shok lines were mono-filament wires recessed into the wall itself, and upon detecting anything outside acceptable parameters i.e. someone trying to climb the wall they would whip out and taze their victims.

Scaling the wall was not an option.

After that, he looked for employment opportunities within Crynet, checked out their website in detail and scoured the links pages.

Bandit found his way onto a Forum for workers at the industrial estate, a union website for the maintenance crews, cleaners and other menial workers in the area.

A bit of searching around found him some information on a bus service that picked up the cleaners and dropped off around different sites, and found that Crynet had it's own bus.

Pickups for the day shift changeover started at 0500, so the cleaners could get in before the office workers started at 0800.

There.

It was slim chance, but Bandit was willing to bet the morning guard shift would change just after the cleaners arrived, so the morning office staff were greeted with fresh faces.

So they would be tired and hopefully not switched on enough to check everyone's ID on the cleaner's bus.

He hoped.

That was the plan. It was dumb. It went against every one of Bandit's operator instincts to go in without any actionable intel, with the vaguest of ideas of what he actually wanted to achieve. Alone.

But he was going anyway.

_Fuck it. _It's not like he had anything better to do.

He got off Base at around midnight.

He knew the night shift dropped down to one check every 2 hours, so after giving his print at 2300, bandit got to work.

First to go was the hair. He shaved his face clean and clipped his hair down to a tight buzzcut.

No doubt the men in the guardroom had information about the quarantined soldiers and their appearance, but covert recon experience had taught Bandit that the simplest of disguises were often enough.

They would be on the look out for a scruffy operator (if they even bothered), he would give them a meathead paratrooper from the 82nd.

He dressed appropriately. He would be hiding in plain sight as the plan relied on Crynet security incompetence, so there was no need to dress it down.

Bandit wore khaki utility pants and his favourite pair of walking boots, coupled with a plain t-shirt under a dark softshell jacket.

His Kukri was strapped to his back under the jacket, at a downward angle so it could be drawn in an emergency.

It would have little practical use against security guards, but Bandit felt better knowing he had some kind of weapon.

It worked a treat. The corporal in the guardroom barely even looked up from whatever magazine he was reading as Bandit signed a bogus name in the sign in/out book _God bless the army and it's insistence on using last centuries mediums_ . It wasn't entirely unusual for a soldier to leave base at midnight by himself.

Loads of the guys had girls downtown, so the Corporal just gave him a knowing look before Bandit waltzed out the gate.

It got harder after that. He had nearly an hour before anyone noticed he was AWOL, but after that the base were likely to send out a search party, and he had to assume that he was under surveillance at all times, so they probably knew where he was likely to go.

This played on Bandit's mind as he walked into town, deciding against a cab to help cover his movements.

He weaved his way through the streets of Fayetteville slowly, carrying out basic anti-surveillance drills like boxing around his route and random direction changes, quietly working his way through the suburbs until he reached the bus stop nearest the Crynet facility, about a mile out.

Bandit stayed one street away, sticking to the shadows of an alleyway between 2 local stores that overlooked the stop.

It was a simple affair, one of those new dura-weave polymer shelters with a couple of benches bolted in to sit on, sat just back from the pavement.

He had to duck back a number of times as Army Bulldogs patrolled past, helmeted soldiers stood tall in the cupolas, their pintle mounted weapons replaced by powerful searchlights as they scanned the area, no doubt looking for their rogue sick patient.

He spent twenty minutes or so watching the bus stop then sat down, overcome by a sudden tiredness.

The veteran soldier couldn't figure out if he had just got unfit, or the mystery illness was sapping his strength, but it wasn't good.

In the end, he found a recently emptied dumpster that didn't smell too bad and climbed in. He needed to remain vigilant, and the walk combined with his sickness had taken it's toll.

Bandit set his watch for 0525 and fell asleep.

A persistent tapping on the wrist jerked Him into consciousness, the covert alarm on Bandit's watch vibrating furiously.

The Operator disabled it and peeked out of the dumpster, lifting the lid slightly with his hand just a crack.

The bus stop was busier now. A number of sullen looking individuals milled about in that way that people do when they are forced to be around others and have no desire to speak to them, avoiding eye contact and concentrating hard on phones or iballs.

5 minutes.

Bandit eased himself out of the dumpster, brushed his gear down and gave himself a sniff before walking over to join the group.

_Passable. _He thought as he eyed the drab, utilitarian clothing worn by the maintenance crews.

He guessed it must be Crynet policy to keep uniforms on site. Lucky for him.

When the bus arrived he joined in the middle of the group, flashing his army Id at the driver, looking him in the eye with a grunt of

"Special Projects." He wasn't questioned, the driver didn't give a shit, probably couldn't wait to get off shift.

Bandit positioned himself as far to the back of the bus as possible and sat low, not trying to hide but rather like trying to appear bored and tired.

Inside, his heart beat was racing as the bus completed the short journey to Crynet, turning a final into the filter lane and pulling up for the morning check.

Bandit looked around, hoping he appeared casual as he scoped the place out.

2 armed guard on the gate, rocking what looked like some SCAR variant, coloured in the same gaudy urban camo Crynet insisted it's forces wore at all times.

The gate itself was a thick grey slab of steel, offering no glimpse of what lay beyond, large enough to accommodate two ATLAS MBTs side by side. It's intent was to intimidate, coupled with the wall it sent a clear message to anyone not meant to be there.

NOT WELCOME.

Bandit felt it was purely for him.

A third man appeared from a smaller armoured door embedded in the wall to one side of the entrance, walking briskly up to the bus on the passenger door side.

This one had no body armour and only carried a sidearm, obviously the guard commander or second in command, and the bus driver opened the doors with whirr of servos to let him in.

Bandit glanced at him quickly as he stood in the aisle, gut tightening as his body prepared it's fight or flight reflex.

The dude was average height, middle aged and soft faced and a bit pudgy but carried himself well.

Bandit figured he probably did time in the forces once, infantry most likely, but that was some time ago and he had gotten used to the big bucks and easy mercenary life for too long.

He could take him out no sweat if he needed to, weapon or no weapon.

The problem would be the guys outside, still the bus was a big hunk of carbon fibre and steel and it was full of civilian shields, Bandit was fairly certain he could take them out with the guard's side arm before they plucked up the courage to fire back.

Soft face looked up the aisle, no doubt looking for faces he recognised, occasionally nodding to someone who caught his eye.

Bandit's skin was crawling, every cell in his body wanted to sink in the chair and not be seen, to turn on his imaginary cloak in his imaginary nanosuit, but he didn't.

He just sat there, blank expression on his face, looking at the guard, looking like he was supposed to be there. And when Soft face caught his eye Bandit nodded, acknowledging him as though he knew him.

Soft face lingered on Bandit for a moment, an agonising half second while his brain computed the stimulus going in before being fooled by the body language, the subtle signs, his animal brain telling him _this man knows you _before he finished his visual check.

And then he left, just like that, no id check, just a "have a good day" to the driver and he was gone.

_Familiarity and routine breeds complacency, fucking amateurs_ Bandit thought to himself as the massive door smoothly swung back on well oiled hydraulics.

Beyond, the Crynet building loomed, roughly half a klick back, dead centre of the compound.

The bus passed what was obviously a barracks, an ominous looking block with 4 white and grey bulldogs parked outside, and a number of smaller office blocks before pulling into the main car park in front of the structure.

Bandit filed off of the vehicle with the moody workers and took a decent look at it.

He had never seen the Crynet building before, having always entered via a heavily guarded underground entrance offsite during the program, but first impressions left him feeling hollow.

It was a featureless block, three stories high but covering as much floor space as any decent sized walmart, as pure a gesture of a sinister unfeeling corporation as any. It was totally climate controlled, so the builders didn't put in any windows and it only had one official entrance to save money, theoretically making it easier to secure.

Bandit had gone over this earlier as his hung over brain struggled to form a coherent plan of action.

Fire exits were actually parts of the wall that automatically opened into floor recesses when the security system detected an appropriate emergency, so he wasn't going in that way.

All the usual options were out of the question, due either to lack of equipment, support or possibly sanity, so he was left with the direct approach.

Bandit loitered at the back of the line as the workers had their Ids checked individually, one guard doing the checking while a second stood a couple of metres to one side, buzzing people in.

Both were only packing side-arms, both were holstered.

Bandit could see the corporate policy from here, internal guards would be less heavily armed so as to not intimidate the civilian office staff.

A soft posture, they called it. Very convenient.

Both men still had armour though, a lighter rig than the full assault vests worn by the gate guards, but Bandit was sure it would be enough to deflect unarmed strikes.

He had to time it right, too many civilians about and it would be chaos, too many variables. But he did need one, as a block and to sew a bit of confusion.

He allowed himself a little smile as the line whittled away to just a few cleaners, thinking _Am I really doing this? I am in so much trouble..._

No more time for subtlety, Bandit loosened his stance, shook himself off and planted his feet in a balanced manner.

The time came.

Guard number 1 was checking the ID card of the lady directly in front of Bandit, a slight Hispanic woman in her thirties, while guard number 2 looked at the Special Forces man with suspicion.

Clearly recognising the warning signs, guard 2 started to move forward, raising his hand to the holster on his hip.

Bandit looked back at him and gave him a friendly smile, causing him to hesitate.

Bandit was still smiling as he rushed in, throwing a series of rapid punches as he got inside the reach of the second guard. The other man tried lifting his arms in defence, but the punches were just a diversion to cover the distance.

Bandit clasped both hands around the back of the man's head and jerked his right elbow in, dragging the guard off balance, before using the momentum to bring his left knee up, ramming it into the guy's face.

Somewhere behind him the woman screamed, unable to deal with the sudden violence erupting around her, as guard number 1 shoved her out of the way.

Guard 2 turned into a dead weight as soon as the knee connected so Bandit let him drop, turning his attention to the other guard as the first one fell to the pavement.

Guard 1 took a step forward, fumbling with his pistol holster, shouting the beginnings of a warning.

Somewhere at the back of his mind Bandit rejoiced, wondering why people always went for their weapons, even when they weren't the right tool for the job.

_Too close_

He took an oversized step and dropped low, shooting in to grab guard 1 around the hips.

Driving back onto his feet Bandit lifted the man up and fell, pivoting to slam his victim into the concrete with an audible crack.

Not stopping for breath, Bandit scrambled up the prone man to mount his chest, hooking round with a short elbow but pulled it at the last moment, stopping himself short.

The guard was out of it, must have hit his head on the way down.

_Again, amateurs. Who taught these goons how to breakfall?_

Bandit stood up with a grunt, his back aching from the exertion, a little nod from the sickness to let him know it was still there.

_Bastards_

The whole thing was over in seconds and Bandit was at guard number 2 again, relieving him of his pistol and security card in a flurry of activity, tearing the items from their lanyards

as if his life depended on it.

The woman had stopped screaming, Bandit noted as he rushed to the main entrance, holding the card up to the reader, leaving her sitting in the dirt in shock.

He had to get the door open before someone caught him on the security cameras or the woman reported him, he couldn't afford the door being in lockdown before he got inside.

A little light on the reader glowed green, and the door opened with a clunk.

Pushing his way inside, bandit was greeted with an open lobby, clean, sterile looking walls framed a large black desk, flanked on either side by leather couches normally used by waiting visitors.

Behind that were a set of double doors leading into the offices beyond and elevators, one on either side of the lobby, their call panels emitting a soft glow to show that they were ready to use.

He caught

"-derstand sir, the alarm should have sounded by now." Being spoken into a phone by a young woman behind the desk, her tone terse but apologetic.

Bandit strode forward and brought the pistol up, aiming it at her with a steady, one handed grip as her eyes came up to meet his.

He could hear the voice on the other end of the line ranting as her eyes widened and she froze, unable to answer.

Bandit took another couple of steps and gestured _Down _with the weapon, she put the phone down without comment.

"Clever girl."

He slowly walked around the desk, keeping his aim on her all the while until he stopped in front of the elevator, when he switched it to a cluster of workers who had quietly moved into a corner to cower.

He ran the security card over the elevator light panel and stepped in as it opened, gesturing at the workers for effect to ensure that none of them tried to follow him.

The Crynet building was laid out like many civilian companies with military leanings, with the security levels getting higher the further you went up, with meandering office cattle working on the ground floor, project managers the next floor up and so on.

This creates the useful illusion among the day to day staff that as the highest security personnel work on the top floor, that's where the important stuff is.

It's Bullshit.

As any strategist can tell you, you got important shit that needs protecting, bury it.

Crynet were no different.

Bandit pushed the button for sub-level 3, the doors closed and the elevator smoothly begun to descend.

He was in.


End file.
